


Desk Set

by 51stCenturyFox



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, first time fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-27
Updated: 2009-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 03:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/51stCenturyFox/pseuds/51stCenturyFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feels like the first time. Because it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desk Set

Anything else?” he asks, ever solicitous. His employer is congenial, yet distracted. Distracted is perfect. Ianto _needs_ distracted so he can slip away, to Lisa. Keep her alive, bring her back. Fix her. The words are a constant internal litany. _Fix her. Fix everything. _

Whenever Jack calls him:“Ianto!” his heart jumps and he fears he’s been found out. _Lisa, I’m so sorry_. He senses Jack's eyes on him, often, but mimics the others and meets the innuendo with a smile and shake of the head. He is not sure what he’d expected after that night Jack decided to hire him, but it never occurs.

One night, very late, he hears a whimper. Suzie. Followed by an answering murmur from Jack. She says something the next day about a back rub, but Ianto isn't _dense._

He is relieved, and exhausted from pretence and lack of sleep.

But Ianto can’t relax. Not quite.

He is standing, entering data into the system and senses a presence. A mug appears on the desk beside him. Without moving his head he drops his gaze to study the fine hairs on Jack’s wrist, the thumb running along the lip of the mug.

“Do you need someth-” he begins, but the wrist is gone and he feels a hand, palm flat on his left shoulder, still, then sliding slowly up, then down. He tenses to turn but is checkmated when Jack’s other hand runs slowly up his right sleeve to rest on his collarbone.

“Do-“

“Shhh,” comes a low whisper, stirring the fine hairs at the nape of his neck and he obeys as Jack slides his palms across crisp white pinpoint to Ianto's sides. For a moment, Jack holds him, gently, stroking, but then he feels fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt and grip his waist. Ianto is holding his breath, but sucks a rush of air though his teeth again when he is tugged back and feels pressure - hard and insistent and _real_.

A hand grazes the front of his trousers, over his unbidden erection. He gasps at the contact and Jack’s other arm slips around his waist and tightens.

Deft fingers undo the zip, reach in, playing outside the smooth barrier of his briefs. Ianto can feel himself flush and stiffen further as Jack teases at his flesh through the layer of cotton. Ianto rolls his head back. _It’s been so long. So long since… _

Jack presses him forward into the edge of the desk with enough force to make the mug stutter along the flat plane of its surface. One hand dips between Ianto's thighs to cup him as the other tightens on his cock and a practiced thumb passes roughly over the tip, drawing a shudder of pleasure. Hesitantly, he pushes back and swallows hard when Jack hitches downward and up, then again, panting softly into his ear. Ianto can feel him, feel everything - _Jack's cock_ \- hot and hard through two layers of wool, slipping along the curve of his ass.

_If the layers weren’t there_, he thinks, and he is torn between new and competing urges – to thrust back again or forward into Jack’s rapidly shifting rhythmic grasp. _God. God, yes._

Ianto comes hard and fast, his release folding into a shudder, knuckles pressed hard against the top of the desk. “Fuck,” he manages to gasp.

Jack releases his cock with a final soft stroke and allows him to turn. He does, his blurred gaze falling on mother-of-pearl buttons, shiny against the dark blue shirt, as Jack zips, buttons, locks Ianto away again tender and sodden and fastens his belt.

He waits, breath ragged, until Jack looks up and fixes him with a stare, running his fingertips delicately over the planes of his chest before dropping them to rake his ass hard and leaning in to press his lips against Ianto's for the first time.

“Good?” he queries, finally. Ianto responds silently but affirmatively, deepening the kiss, his hand grasping Jack's shoulder.

“Stay late,” Jack says. It doesn't sound like a question, but he tilts his head and waits for a nod of approval before collecting his cooled coffee and retreating to his office as Ianto turns to the desk.

The words _fix her_ do not enter his mind again until morning.__

 

[part II](http://51stcenturyfox.livejournal.com/51195.html)


End file.
